


Paint it Scarlet

by Adora



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Different Eras, M/M, Revolution, Romance, Sorrow, War, free! children, harurin - Freeform, rinharu - Freeform, sakura trees, side sougou only briefly appearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6825037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adora/pseuds/Adora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a painter that fell in love with a rebel, his life suddenly drowning in cherry blossoms. This much he knew. (sad romantic AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint it Scarlet

  
  
He met him during an ordinary afternoon, at an infamous crossroads down the artists' district. He, himself, was a street painter, cruising through life with a small easel below his armpit and flecks of dried paint on his darned wool pants. Spending his days on shabby benches and cold cobblestones, he was a realist craving to capture the world on his canvas. But _he..._ he was a soul that could not be tamed. Rin was an idealist.  
  
That day, he had found him keeping a lookout under a blossomed sakura tree, while his pals, all members of a gang raiding those neighbourhoods of intellect and anarchy, were emptying buckets of red paint on a store's front across the muddy road. Or maybe it had been Rin the one to find him, shimmering, crimson eyes piercing through his loneliness with mischief, as the redhead lurked in the tree's shadow.  
  
At that moment, the world around him ceased to exist. An invisible hand had intervened to bleach their surroundings. And all it remained to grace his sensitive, artistic view, was a lean stranger with fiery hair, crowned by rows of pink petals, that were dancing around him like snowflakes in every puff of breeze.  
  
That was the first time he drew a cherry blossom. He had started sketching his portrait right then and there, the portrait of a man that stood before him as a vision, but the shrilling cry of the sterling siren had put an abrupt end to his trance. Rin's laughter echoed in the streets, as he dashed after the rest rogues, vanishing in a cloud of dust and gravel.  
  
The same night, he finished the portrait; he just handed the reins to his imagination.  
  
The paintings in his narrow studio were soon full of long branches and rosy petals. With every chance given, he was picturing cherry blossoms. Even when the theme was yet another sooty alley drowned in the misery of the slums, there would still be scattered sakura buds, shyly peeping out the corner of the canvas. Pink was rapidly becoming his new favourite colour. He, who only liked blue.  
  
And as he was delving into his passion's spire, he was getting noticed. Rin would wink at him while hurriedly passing by, often with a breathless police officer on his trail, or even chuckle and call him _'artist boy'_ , those salmon dusks they would stumble on each other; Rin with an empty bottle of rum hanging limply from his grasp, he with his brushes still dripping all the colours of the rainbow.  
  
_“Hey, artist boy, aren't you tired of sitting on these stairs and drawing every day?”_  
  
His plaid newsboy cap had been snagged off his head in the blink of an eye and was now adorning the redhead's top, silky bangs of fire leaking out of the frayed brim.  
  
_“Aren't you tired of throwing red paint on people's properties?”_  
  
His instinctive reaction had been cold and blunt, not because he was a harsh person deep inside, but because this way was the only way he had ever known. When it came to mingling with humans, he preferred his pigments. To his surprise, Rin took off the woolly cap and, for the first time, his usually cheerful, electric face had clouded over.  
  
_“The employers in those places underpay their workers. They are forced to work overtime even on Sundays. Some of them are younger than me and you. So we are painting them scarlet.”_  
  
He had witnessed it at that moment. That thirst for social justice smouldering within Rin's pools of lava. This young man wasn't a common rascal. He was a spirit yearning to break free. A visionary.  
  
But then the stern look evaporated from his handsome face, just as unexpectedly as it had appeared, and Rin's playful radiance hovered above him, as the redhead peeked at his canvas and said:  
  
_“Do you like cherry blossoms?”_  
  
And this startled him. The mere thought his secret obsession was being nipped apart already baffled him so much, that no other image flashed before his eyes than the one mirroring their cerulean.  
  
_“I like the ocean.”_  
  
Which was true. He worshipped that omnipotent blue. And deep down he knew, if he hadn't been an artist, he would have been a swimmer. If he couldn't paint the ocean, he would swim in its depths.  
  
It was not until one week later when they had their first long conversation. Their first , proper, meaningful conversation. The old pub was teeming with cheap tobacco and heady absinthe. He rarely treated himself with such luxuries and when he did, he used to waste alone the night away at the oaken bar counter, surrounded by raggedy musicians and penniless authors, cheeky hoodlums and self-proclaimed philosophers, all restless spirits of his time.  
  
_“Hey, artist boy. Have a drink with me tonight.”_  
  
And as a mug of foamy, dark ale slid before him and a familiar voice invaded his space, an unprecedented warmth tickled his senses. No one had ever bought him a drink before. No one that didn't look twice his age and didn't bear ulterior motives in the back of his mind, at least. Something pure and raw was materializing within his chest's folds and would soon ask permission to manifest itself into the world.  
  
_“Perhaps you've already caught my name, I'm Rin.”_  
  
“Haruka.”  
  
“Sooo...say, Haru, I've been meaning to tell you how much I enjoy your work. You might think I'm kidding, but I'm not, it's a sight I've never seen before.”  
  
Just like that, he had become Haru. And that had been the first of many nights where the two of them would chat away till the early morning hours, before sneaking out to chase the sunrise above the smoking rooftops. Rin was overwhelming, he could talk for hours about the goals haunting his dreams or the experiences illuminating his days. And he would laugh. A boisterous, hearty, genuine laugh that flooded anyone around him like the surge, making even his own, once upon a time bleak and distant face crack a smile.  
  
The paintings in his humble workshop were featuring now whole plains and forests full of cherry blossoms. Different hues of rose, amaranth and vermilion were drying on his canvas, bringing to life every enchanted scenery of his subconscious. He was in love with Rin, this much he knew. He had never been the type of guy to deny or even doubt his own feelings anyway, no matter the trends or the social norms. Besides, what kind of an artist was never in love with his own muse?  
  
Yet, all those careless dawns, Rin would walk him up to his threshold and bid him goodnight without ever insinuating anything. Until one brisk morning, Haru himself pulled the redhead inside by his forearm and pressed his lips on his succulent ones without a warning. It was a moment stagnant in time, anxious and breathtaking simultaneously, and it left Rin bewildered, with a shade darker than his own mane on his cheeks.  
  
_“I..I'm sorry”_  
  
Haru had blinked at Rin's innocence unraveling before him; this extraordinary rebel was still a child at heart.  
  
_“Why you're apologizing? It's me who kissed you.”_

They had kissed again and again, until their swollen lips bled and their airless lungs recoiled in pain within their chests. A few days later, they became one.  
  
_“Haru...agh...Haru...”_  
  
It would always amaze him how hedonistically arousing his own name could sound, when dangling from that voracious mouth he so adored. And as their robust bodies writhed together, naked and sweaty, pushing and stretching on his scattered rugs, and their hot breaths billowed and blended in the cold, midnight air, he told himself that this ought to be how celestial euphoria tasted , the few rare times it was discovered down on earth.  
  
The next day he painted the most beautiful cherry tree one could only hope to lay eyes upon. It was also the first painting he managed to sell.  
  
He continued to draw daily and Rin carried on ruining the tyrants' plans, the same way he ruined their stores with his scarlet paint. On Saturday evenings, they would race each other to the local, outdoor cinema, climb up the fence and watch the silent movies on top of the brick wall. Rin would always improvise the dialogues that weren't there and enrich the starry vault of night with his stories.  
  
_“You do know that's not how the film went.”_  
  
_“Oi, Haru, don't be a kill joy!”_  
  
_“I'm just saying, if you're going to be in character, at least do it right.”_  
  
And the weeks passed, and times changed. Decades of social oppression crammed on every gloomy street, hidden in every impoverished household, had finally started to erupt. A numb society was stirring from its stupor, as more and more voices were rising to demand their stolen rights. The wind smelled of gunpowder and revolution. When Rin joined the rebels, he wasn't surprised. This was a natural conclusion for the redhead, it couldn't have been otherwise. So he supported his lover with all his strength and means, even if his studio's floor was now full of revolutionary proclamations. And the paint on the walls was now becoming a chant in people's lips.  
  
_“Paint it scarlet! Paint it scarlet!”_  
  
He would watch them marching behind the stained glass of his window and secretly tag along, whispering the slogan under his soft smirk. Those days, even the sakura flowers on his paintings had turned a different shade. A shade closer to scarlet.  
  
At nights, he and Rin would lie sprayed on his mattress and gaze at the ink of the infinite sky, through a small opening on his pitched roof. Two hearts connected within a tangle of naked limbs. They wouldn't name the constellations though like most couples would. For they were never that ordinary. Rin would passionately unfold his visions instead and his firm belief in the Revolution. He was ecstatic to be a part of a _team_ . A part of a whole.  
  
_“Forget the theories and figures for a second. Take for example the cherry blossoms. Imagine a world where no one has three planted trees in his beautiful garden, whereas his more unfortunate neighbours have none. A world where every single one of us will have just one cherry blossom in their yard. And everyone will be revelling in its intoxicating smell during springtime and will be sharing its nuts with the others. A world of equality. That's the kind of world I want. Don't you?”_  
  
_“I want a world where I can be free with you.”_  
  
The simple response had escaped his lips, and Rin had smiled and cuddled him lovingly in his arms. But he hadn't answered back.  
  
Because underneath his tremendous courage and rebellious confidence, behind the dazzling smile of the dreamer, Haru knew a part of Rin was stoically suffering. That part that ached to revolt against the traditional beliefs and cry out in the streets for everyone to hear it that yes, he, Rin the rebel, was deeply, madly, truly in love with another man and was not afraid to show it anymore. Unlike Rin, he wasn't bothered. That happiness was his own, he had never cared to share it with the world.  
  
But Rin was different. For all his enlightened mind and progressive ideas, sometimes he was still trapped in the rotten pit of society's conservatism. He knew it because he was the only one that could see through Rin's brave facade, the only one that could count his fears and hear his screams. And even though Rin wouldn't admit it when it came to their unique bond, it was plain obvious in his relationship with his sister.  
  
Rin was obsessed with Gou. His protectiveness was suffocating.  
  
It had been him the one to stand before the enraged redhead, offering his own body as a shield, the night they accidentally found Gou and Sousuke naked on her sheets. A loyal companion to Rin for all his life, Sousuke had calmly remained by Gou's side, embarrassed but unrepentant, ready to accept his friend's vengeance full force, because that was true love, right? And Rin, out of all people, should understand when it came to true love.  
  
He had dragged him away from them and hustled him out in the hallway. If Rin was the driving force of their relationship, the one to always challenge them and urge them forward, Haru had been that steady energy to fuel their dreams, the cold ice to keep that unruly fire balanced.  
  
_“Stop shaking me, you don't understand.”_  
  
_“What's wrong with you? That is your childhood friend back in there, your own comrade!”_  
  
_“And that's exactly the problem! She could have anyone she wanted, literally anyone! Why it had to be one of us? You think rebels have a long and happy life? You think they always get to see the future they fight for? What will happen to her if...She didn't have to choose a rebel!”_  
  
_“But I chose you...”_  
  
Two months later, Rin was arrested during a clash with the authorities. Every day he would spend hours outside the police station, staring at the officers with his azure eyes wide and void of emotion. Eventually he became a nuisance. Amidst threats, they forcefully shoved him down on the asphalt. He never budged.  
  
Those weeks, the sakura trees on his paintings remained grey and withered, having shed all their leaves and barren of vibrant colours.  
  
After his release, Rin returned even more driven and determined. Instead of breaking him, his confinement had become the unexpected inspiration that gave his goals a lot of impetus. Haru was relieved to see his beaming smile enlivening their dimly lit room once again, thus he remained silent.  
  
Eventually, the times changed once more. And the beast of war was finally awaken.  
  
The morning the sealed letter arrived, the clouds were hanging low and the streets glistened mournfully under the light drizzle. Rin had been summoned to the battlefront, to join the Resistance. This time, he spoke up.  
  
_“Don't go. There are a dozen, no, a hundred other ways to help the revolution. Just don't go.”_  
  
_“The Resistance needs me.”_  
  
_“No, they don't. You can be useful in other posts too.”_  
  
_“Haru...you don't understand...I need it as well. You have your paintings, and your watercolours, and this beautiful world of yours full of cherry blossoms. I have the Resistance.”_  
  
_“I thought we had each other.”_  
  
_“We'll always have each other. I promise you.”_  
  
He had escorted him to the train station, wagons overflowing with smiling youths in crimson armbands. He took out of his pocket a tiny bouquet of fragrant sakura flowers and steadied it behind Rin's ear.  
  
_“Bring this back to me.”_  
  
_“But, until then, it will have...”_  
  
He shushed him with a kiss. His lips undulated against Rin's and, for a short moment, it was dawn all over again and they were living their newfound love at his workshop's threshold.  
  
_“I promise I'll bring it back. I'll go there, paint them scarlet, and bring this back to you.”_  
  
The days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months. And the war raged on. Every Monday he would ask the postman about any new letters from their rebels at the front. Sometimes he would even ask twice the same week. Because Rin's clumsy handwriting on the coarse, discoloured paper was the beacon that kept him going. And every time Gou would receive Sousuke's mail before him, his heart would skip a beat.

One year passed since the day Rin's crimson hair flowed in the midsummer air, his upper torso suspended outside the wagon's window, his arms waving goodbye. Sousuke eventually returned with a permanently broken and dysfunctional shoulder, and a mind haunted by the battles' horror. A few more months flitted away. He waited. Always waited.  
  
And then the war was over. The Resistance had won. The revolution had succeeded and the main newspaper titles were heralding the new era that was rising in the horizon. And Rin didn't return.  
  
The webbed paintings in his studio were blank, the canvas remained a sickly off-white. He never painted again.

  
  
***************

  
  
Three years old Nanase Haruka is comfortably resting on his father's secure chest, as the Nanase family are leaving a local fun faire. Two steps behind them, a childlike bawling is piercing the warm night.  
  
“Come on now, Rin. You're gonna wake up your little sister. You're a big man now, you shouldn't cry. Look how quiet and behaved that boy is.”  
  
With a big, paper cherry blossom clinging behind his ear, two and a half years old Matsuoka Rin suddenly hushes down, his baby face flushed and irritated, and glances towards the mysterious boy his father so openly compares him to.  
  
Haruka's parents smile with understanding, and Mrs Matsuoka chimes in to explain her son's behaviour.  
  
“He's protesting cause we didn't get him any ice cream at the fun faire. But he already had some chocolate earlier and I'm kinda worried about his teeth.”  
  
“Well he's quite the rebel already” Toraichi Matsuoka adds and a wave of cordial laughter spreads around the four adults.  
  
“Are you from around here?”  
  
“No, we were just visiting for the faire. I work as a fisherman at the docks of a nearby village. I take it you don't live here either?”  
  
“That's right. Our Haruka loves water and swimming though, so we often come for the ocean.”  
  
“What a coincidence, our Rin likes swimming as well” Toraichi's chest suddenly swells with pride “Back in the day, I used to be a swimmer myself. So, if my son follows my steps, I hope to be there cheering him in his relays.”  
  
At that moment, a cold gust of wind pelts their faces, a grim, shivering sensation spreading on their skin. They chat a bit more under the colourful garlands of the fun faire, when Rin leaves his father's side and approaches the elder Nanase. His ruby eyes are still wet from his previous tears, two orbs that sparkle brighter than the lanterns above their heads, as he gazes upwards at Haruka.  
  
“Look, Haru. I think little Rin wants to talk with you.”  
  
The raven haired boy turns away his head.  
  
“Come on, don't be shy now. Here, why don't you play together?”  
  
His father places him down next to Rin, and Haruka frowns at the redhead cherub before him. But then Rin's face instantly perks up, a baby smile so pure and radiant, that makes his rosy cheeks gleam like the sea's ebb under the meridian halo. His little fingers unhook the paper cherry blossom from his hair and happily offer it to Haruka.  
  
“Take it back. It's yours.”

Young Haruka stares at the precious cherry blossom within his little palms, a light blush already creeping on his own cheeks. And their parents comment how adorable the whole scene is while continuing to talk and smile obliviously. And young Haruka keeps staring at the pink flower.  
  
Eight years later, he and Rin will meet again in Elementary school. The moment their eyes will cross , the nostalgic feeling of déjà vu  will briefly engulf them in its sweetness. Rin won't remember why. But he will.

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated.


End file.
